“Some cad of a farmer’s son or a briefless Irish barrister. Ireland wants Englishmen to sit for her and upon her.”
“I am going to oppose you, Mr. Melton,” my heart beating very fast as I uttered the words.
“Aw!” And extracting an eye-glass from the folds of his coat, he deliberately stuck it in his eye and coolly surveyed me from head to foot.
I would have knocked him heels over head, if Miss Hawthorne had not been present.
“Fire away,” he said; “but, if you take my advice, you will not run your head against a stone wall.”
“And if you take my advice,” I hotly retorted, “you’ll take the next train en route for London, for you have come upon a bootless errand.”
“Nous allons voir,” with a shrug.
“Yes, we shall see the outcome.”
“You don’t mean to go on?”
“To the bitter end.”